


So Proud of You

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 13:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12366489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Theresa returns to Maidenhead with Philip after the Conference disaster.





	So Proud of You

“Take your time, love,” she heard Philip say gently. “Take your time.”

As soon as they had left the conference hall, he had ushered her into a small, empty prep room backstage, folding her into his arms again just in time for the first sobs to burst out.

It was what she’d almost done on stage, what she had felt rising up in her chest as she’d said the last words of her speech, what she had fought so hard to hold back, with nothing more than a couple gasps and a brief tremble of her lip escaping. She’d won that battle because of Philip, of course. Philip, whom she had immediately searched for in the crowd when she finished, assuring herself he was on his way and would be with her soon. Philip, who had bounded up onstage, hurrying to reach her and wrap his arms around her; Philip, whose presence had given her the burst of strength she’d needed. Philip, who had hugged her tightly and told her, after the worst speech she’d heard in her life, how proud she’d made him.

He’d known, of course, that her tears had been postponed and not prevented, and thus he’d bundled her into this room, past the chaos of backstage staffers, where she could weep in private.

And weep she did. Her sobs choked her at first, struggling against her deep tendency to fight tears with her last breath.

“Let it out,” she heard him say, as he always did, his hand rubbing her back gently. “Don’t fight it, sweetheart.” She slowly gave herself over to her tears, sobbing so hard she was sure she’d be heard through the closed door, burying her face against Philip’s shoulder.

“Your…jacket…” she managed to choke out, thinking of all the foundation and mascara and tears and snot she was smearing all over him.

“Don’t worry about the jacket,” he said gently. His lips brushed a kiss to her temple. “Just cry as much as you need to.”

She needed to cry for years, she thought. Because what a mess that had been. What a ridiculous, nightmarish disaster. And it had only been one of the most important speeches of her career.

She’d tried. She’d tried _so hard_. She’d been sick all week, but she hadn’t missed an event, _determined_ to get this conference right, and she’d sent Philip out to Boots for her to bring back every cold medicine he could find, hoping desperately to get her voice in order by Wednesday. This morning, it had hurt to talk, and she’d dreaded how painful the speech would be. But she’d never entertained having it read out by someone else and staying in bed, where she’d longed to be for days.

And the end result of all this was that she’d stood there, choking like a terminally ill patient, gasping for breath for what had felt like minutes on end, while the whole hall—to say nothing of the millions watching from home—waited and waited and waited for her to get on with it. She’d ruined her speech and thoroughly embarrassed herself in the process, looking weak, foolish, and incompetent.

Philip understood all of this, of course. One of the wonderful things about Philip was that she never had to explain anything to him, because he knew her so well that he always knew what she was feeling.

Darling Philip. How wonderful his arms felt, how comforting it was to have him to hold onto and to hold her as she sobbed, how relieved she had been when he’d finally come bounding up the stairs, his arms open wide for a hug.

His presence had been pure comfort for her for decades, and there was nothing more soothing than having him near.

As always, he didn’t speak: she hated being told that it was all right or being told not to cry, and all she wanted, as Philip knew, was to be held in silence until she had control of herself again.

Eventually, she began to catch her breath, and she tried to focus on what would come next. There was generally a reception with staff after the prime minister’s speech, but…

“I want to go home,” she whispered through her remaining tears. “I just want to go home with you.”

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her forehead. “We’ll get you home and put you to bed. You need rest—I know you don’t feel well.”

She straightened and stepped back, wiping her eyes. “I feel _awful_.” As much as she hated to admit when she was ill, disguising it took far too much energy right now, and the truth of the matter was that she felt like she’d been run over by a truck.

“I know, sweetheart.” He laid his hand to her cheek and then moved it to her forehead. “You’re warm again, too.”

It wouldn’t surprise her if she had another low fever. At five days in to this cold, the worst of her symptoms should have been fading, but the lack of sleep and all the running around of the conference had meant that she’d only gotten worse.

“When we get home, you can sleep, and then we’ll both stay home all day tomorrow and you can rest some more, and we’ll see if we can’t get you over this awful cold. Now why don’t I go and ask for the car, and I’ll bring you some tea for your throat while we wait?”

She nodded gratefully with a dry sob, and Philip gave her another hug. “I love you,” he said with a soft smile before kissing the tip of her nose, then her lips.

“Don’t do that,” she rasped. “You’ll get sick.” She’d been fighting a losing battle for days to keep her germs from getting all over her husband.

“I don’t care about getting sick.” He smiled sweetly and gave her another kiss. “I just care about you.”

\---

After a humiliating walk through a crowd of staff and activists—who had all cheered enthusiastically, but Theresa had burned at the pity she could sense below the surface—Philip bundled her out the back and into the waiting Jaguar.

“They all knew I’d been crying,” she said as she settled in to the backseat.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he told her, but she knew he was wrong. Her eyes had been puffy, her make-up had been half gone, and Philip’s jacket had been a mess.

“I think…” she began, but then her throat closed as it had during the speech, and another fit of coughing seized her.

Philip laid a steadying hand on her knee. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you need to try to talk right now. Your voice sounds like it hurts.”

She nodded. It did—her throat felt as though she’d swallowed glass shards, and she didn’t feel like talking anyway.

“Why don’t you lie down right now with your head in my lap?” he offered, his voice gentle and soft. “You could get a bit of sleep before we even get back to Maidenhead…here, you can cover up with my jacket.”

She nodded gratefully, thinking how very wonderful a nap sounded—she’d wanted a nap for _days_ —as Philip removed the suit coat she’d cried all over. “Here, love,” he said, stretching his arm out for her and helping her settle against him. She slipped her heels off, curling her legs up onto the seat as she lay down, and let her husband arrange his coat over her.

“Are you warm enough?”

“I’m a little cold,” she rasped, bringing on another round of coughing.

“Shh, just shake yes or no,” he said, laying a finger against her lips once she had settled. “We’ll turn the heat up a bit, and turn on the seat heaters. I want to keep you warm.”

Theresa’s eyes were already closed, but she felt her human pillow shift slightly and assumed Philip was reaching forward to turn up the backseat temperature and switch on the heaters. “Are you comfortable otherwise?” he asked, and she nodded, unable to keep from sighing softly as his left arm wrapped around her. It felt wonderful just to lie down, and it was ten times better to have Philip snuggling her. After a couple more coughing spells—Philip rubbing her back soothingly each time—she drifted off.

\---

Philip was gently stroking Theresa’s hair when the light snore her congestion caused reached his ears. _Perfect._ She was in desperate need of sleep—he’d spent most of the conference trying to get her to bed earlier. But there were receptions she was determined to attend, and speech edits that had to be made, and so many meetings that he wasn’t sure what the government did the rest of the year, because all the business he could imagine seemed to be getting done in Manchester. Her utter exhaustion, he was sure, was why her cold had hung on so long and why she felt so dreadful, and he was determined to get her a good night’s sleep tonight—as well as a long nap at home this afternoon.

Everything in him had screamed at him all week to nurse Theresa, to get her to lie down in a dark room and bring her medicine and hot tea and comfort food and ensure that she was warm and cozy under the covers and cuddle her to sleep. She’d have been well in a couple days under that method, he was sure, but he had been frustrated at every turn. The most he had been able to do for her was run out to Boots and buy her every cold medicine that wasn’t nailed down, which he had determinedly forced down her throat when she had preferred to have her mind on other things. And, of course, the hugs: she was always very cuddly when she didn’t feel well, wanting to be held and petted, and thus he’d given her as many embraces as they’d had spare minutes for and let her rest her head on his shoulder as they worked through speech drafts with her aides.

But now they were finally going home. He would put her to bed as soon as they got there, getting her into her favorite pajamas and warming the bed with hot water bottles, then rubbing her back until she fell asleep. He’d wake her later for a bowl of hot soup, and then see if she felt like watching a bit of Jane Austen while he snuggled with her on the couch. She didn’t have to work tomorrow, and he’d stay home as well, pampering her and cuddling her and catering to her every need.

Philip couldn’t wait: he loved nothing more than taking care of Theresa and knowing he’d made her happy.

Of course, she’d probably also want to talk about the speech. The disastrous speech. She’d fretted all week about whether her cold would give her trouble, wondering if she’d be less audible than usual, or if she’d cough at all. He’d told her—and he’d really believed—that she would be fine. Surely there would be nothing more than an occasional need to clear her throat. The end result, where she had broken down multiple times in coughing fits, her voice barely present, with half the audience wondering whether she’d even finish, had been beyond her worst nightmares. He’d ached for her each time, wanting to rush up onstage and try to help her, praying fervently that her cough would ease. He’d known how upset she’d be, how embarrassed, how horrified…to say nothing of the interruption from the idiot prankster or—and he doubted she even knew this yet—the way the set had begun to fall apart behind her.

The irony was that Philip thought it was the most incredible speech he’d ever heard delivered. He didn’t think he’d ever been so proud of his wife, and there could be no better metaphor for her quiet strength and perseverance. She’d just kept going—as she always did—with no thought of stopping or passing the speech off to someone else. Theresa always stuck with things, even when they were difficult, and she always battled through. To say nothing of the fact that she was only so sick in the first place because, as always, she had put the party’s welfare before her own, refusing to miss an event or skip thanking a single activist.

His heart had broken when he’d seen her fighting sobs on the stage, and he’d hurried to hug her, afraid she’d be weeping openly on national TV if he didn’t get there immediately. He knew she’d cried because she thought it was her worst speech ever…but he thought it might have been her best. She’d made him so, so proud.

\---

“Oh, you’ve got a hot water bottle in here!” Theresa murmured as she settled into bed, stretching her feet out and under the covers at the bottom, where they made contact with a soft blob of heat.

“I didn’t want your feet to get cold, sweetheart,” Philip said, kissing her cheek. It wasn’t just her feet he had kept warm, though—when they’d arrived home, she’d gone to the bathroom to wash the make-up off her face, and while she’d been busy, he’d popped her softest pajamas into the dryer. They’d been wonderfully hot when she’d slipped into them afterwards.

“How about I give you a backrub while you fall asleep?” he went on.

That sounded even better than the nap and the heated pajamas and the soup he had promised to have ready when she woke up. Philip gave the best massages, and she’d been achy since she’d first gotten sick over the weekend, with a new stiffness in her shoulders from her constant coughing the past two days. Theresa did not have the energy or the voice to tell him this, but his fingers usually found her sore spots without much direction, so she just nodded against her pillow, closing her eyes as his hands began to knead her muscles. She meant to stay awake for a bit, enjoying this, but she was too sleep-deprived and too comfortable not to drift off in minutes.

She awoke later to the sound of Philip’s sweet northern accent softly calling her name and opened her eyes to see him stepping into their darkened bedroom, a breakfast tray in his hands with a steaming bowl of soup and a mug of tea resting on it.

“I thought I’d bring you your dinner in here,” he said as she blinked her eyes open. “That way you can stay warm and cozy under the covers while you eat.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, sitting up and stacking her pillows behind her. This was ordinarily the sort of treatment she would have protested heavily, but she couldn’t think of anything better at the moment than being loved, served, and kept warm. “Did you make anything for yourself?”

“I had a bite to eat while you slept,” he said as he settled the tray across her lap. “This is just for you, princess.” It was a name he only used when he was feeling his most affectionate and wanted her to feel special, and she smiled.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Did your nap help at all?”

She nodded, taking stock of her body. She still didn’t feel particularly good, but she was tired instead of exhausted, she no longer ached all over, and her throat had eased a bit as well. “A little,” she said. “I feel a little better with some sleep. Will you sit with me while I eat?” What she wanted most now was to have Philip near.

“Of course,” he said with a smile. He climbed into bed next to her and they snuggled close, Theresa leaning against Philip’s side. “You doing okay?” he said softly, kissing her cheek once they were comfortable.

She nodded again. “I think so…there are worse things in life than a bad speech.” She’d had far worse days as prime minister than today.

“It wasn’t a bad speech, but you’re right.” He paused. “I’m really proud of you, you know.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You’re always proud of me, even when I’m not proud of myself.” She paused. “And now I’m going to focus on the fact that I don’t have to go anywhere tomorrow, and I’m going to enjoy being with my husband.”

He kissed her again. “Do you feel up to watching one of your Jane Austen movies tonight, sweetheart? I thought maybe we could do that after you finish your dinner.”

There were few things in the world more relaxing to her than that, and she knew exactly how it would go: Philip would tell her to lie down on the couch with her head in his lap, and he would cover her with a comfortable blanket and run his fingers through her hair while they watched _Pride & Prejudice._

“That sounds wonderful,” she told him with a smile. “Thank you…for all of this.”


End file.
